Sparkle
by Laerthel
Summary: Grief, anger, and a desperate hunger for justice; Thorin Oakenshield himself. (Based on both the book and on PJ's film adaptation).


**Sparkle**

_"__The young dwarf prince took work where he could find it. _

_And he never forgave... and he never forgot."_

Another stroke with the hammer; pale light painted the rough stone walls as the steel sparkled.

The mountain had sparkled as well; it smoked beneath the moon. Robbed of his homeland, he ran away shaking, shivering, gasping for breath. The night was cool and calm; the woods hid him as he raced along the shadows, wishing his cloak would make him invisible. He heard people screaming in horror and felt a wave of heat on his cheeks. He slid a hand outside his pocket and touched his face. He felt nothing but tears. Tears cold like ice, tears salty like the Sea, tears clean like crytals, tears of hopeless pain. No one was screaming around him but the demons of the past stayed with him, stuck in his head and since that night nothing could comfort him.

Another stroke with the hammer; pale light painted the rough stone walls as the steel sparkled.

His blade had sparkled as well as he cut his way out through the wargs of the Wild; as he fought for his people's lives day after day, week after week, month after month... years had passed and they wandered in the woodlands, homeless, useless, forgotten. His beautiful sky-blue cloak darkened with every passing year; it darkened and darkened until it was black as death, black as mourning. Its color blue sunk back to his old memories as if it had been only a dream.

Another stroke with the hammer; pale light painted the rough stone walls as the steel sparkled.

The Elven army had sparkled as well: the friends who had betrayed him. He could remember their arrival way too clearly. Eyes closed, he could even see their powerful crowd. Lances, bows, swords and daggers. Slim, falcon-feathered arrows. Light armour. Tall figures in tall helmets and green cloaks. An army that should have defeated the dragon but had broke its oath instead. He could remember their king too; one hell of a sparkle from head to toes. Every time he recalled them his blood boiled with anger.

Another stroke with the hammer; pale light painted the rough stone walls as the steel sparkled.

The Blue Mountains have sparkled as well, like a huge chain of sapphires in the distance. He'd built a new life from nothing. He protected his people, he gave them a new chance to gain back what was rightfully theirs. A home. Mountains. Mines. Caves. Stones. Jewels. Crystals. His people weren't lost anymore but he was. He often heard them singing, laughing, sharing plans and ideas, their pick-axes striking roughly the mines' walls as they were working, digging and searching.

He was the only one who felt abandoned. His mind cried out for a place to hide, an axe to hold, a mine to work in, maybe even a wife to love; but revenge was the only true desire of his blood and soul; a sort of a bestial, burning hunger he could not control or tame. He was the last descendant of Durin's line, he knew. He had to guard his own life, but his nightmares never let him be. Every night he saw his homeland burning down; the dragon slipping into his halls, stealing the gold of his ancestors; the burning lands and the rotting dead... and sometimes he saw his grandfather dying.

Azog the Defiler and his sparkling red eyes were another story. It had been long ago when he had to face the pale orc with a decayed old oaken branch and almost killed him, yet it was his cousin Dain who finally had that pleasure. But that monster beheaded King Thror so the dwarves stood leaderless, with so great of a loss they could not even celebrate their victory.

Another stroke with the hammer; pale light painted the rough stone walls as the steel sparkled.

Gandalf's eyes have sparkled as well when the wizard had offered him a new chance to slay the dragon. A sly, clever plan of his that no one reckoned: a plan that may stay in the shadows. The wizard's reasoning had woken something in him he had never felt before. Some stubborn, straight attachment that offered no scope for questions or doubts. He knew this feeling would stay with him 'til the grave. From his grandfather and his father, the task had come to him. He could not turn away from his past and sink back to the shadows.

Not now. Not after all these years and suffering.

A last stroke with the hammer; the pale light painted the rough stone walls as the steel sparkled but in a second, the light was gone. Thick darkness surrounded him and the walls were cold as he searched for the flint. Thorin Oakenshield lighted a candle to see what he had done.

A long dagger was lying near his hands; its blade still black and its hilt undecorated. In this early period of forging there was nothing special about it, but Thorin felt a beating heart in the steel as if the blade was alive, as if the pale blinks of light on the steel were smiling mischievously. The dagger was made of the finest material he could find and he'd spent several hours only with cheking its weight. So light it was, even lighter than the Elven armes.

For so many years the dwarves of Ered Luin could live in peace and their daggers were only cutting dinner; but this very dagger had been forged to serve a higher purpose. It was made to travel far, to return, to reclaim a homeland... and to kill the dragon, to run up straight into the beast's heart and to take its life.

Thorin left the workroom and went to sleep. It was late night, he couldn't even hear his nephews singing.

Durin's beard, I stayed up later then Fili and Kili. I may have worked more than I should.

The darkness thickened around him as he crawled into bed. He let out a long sigh, sent a last curse to King Thranduil and fell asleep in an instant. But as he closed his eyes it wasn't dark anymore.

The mountain smoke beneath the moon; the trees like torches blazed with light.


End file.
